


Funeral Of Fire

by NervousOtaku



Series: Neo-City Series [9]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Discussion, Political Negotiations, Suspicions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 19:28:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15226245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NervousOtaku/pseuds/NervousOtaku
Summary: Samkiel meets with the head of Newcastle.





	Funeral Of Fire

_A funeral pyre with rowan wood is said to keep dead spirits from being corrupted by evil._

Samkiel wanted to gargle in frustration.

He hated people. Hated politics. Hated political people.

And yet here he was. Heading for the office of Newcastle's company head. He was supposed to discuss terms for a trading agreement, in order to ease the city-state into Neo-City's control.

As he walked, he was swarmed by reporters, brown-nosers, and a few fans. He shook hands when presented with them, allowed himself to be clapped on the shoulder. He turned down a bag of candy from a fan, telling the woman he didn't care for sweets.

All Samkiel wanted to do at this point was take sandpaper to his skin.

Finally, he got to the office. The receptionist waved him inside, and it took everything he had not to slam the door shut. But he wasn't out of this yet.

Keeping his camera-smile up, Samkiel approached the desk. “Hello, sir. I'm here—”

“Please, drop the act.”

His smile fell, expression turning hard. “Excuse me?”

The old man at the desk looked up. His expression was... hollow. Tired and sad.

“I'm given enough false cheer from the media and your own company. I'll take your honest feelings over a saccharine act.”

Samkiel crossed his arms over his chest, glaring.

“Please, sit. There's no reason to loom over me when I know you could kill me as easily as breathing.” the man gestured, looking back down to his papers.

Samkiel remained standing a moment longer. It was slowly and without really thinking when he did sit down. He debated throwing his boots up on the desk, but chose to settle for slouching down with his legs spread wide.

“So why does the head of Newcastle want me to negotiate trade?” he growled.

“I didn't. Your company did. For public appearances, I imagine. A flex of muscle, not that it's needed.” the head replied.

“So are we going to negotiate trade?”

A dry smile was given. “There's not much to discuss. I've already read and signed half the papers.”

Resisting the urge to snarl, Samkiel demanded, “So am I just supposed to make idle chat with you, then?”

“If you want. I can hardly stop you from doing anything. I'm an old man, Mr. Church, and my time is almost up.”

He didn't reply, just glared.

And so they sat in silence. The Newcastle head turned papers over, brushed his fingertips over lines of text, and scratched his signature here and there. Occasionally Samkiel would pick up the receptionist outside saying something, or the clatter of her chair.

Eventually, the silence became too much for him, and he stood. The old man at the desk barely spared him a glance. For some reason, Samkiel found that he really didn't mean the curl of his lip. It was an instinctual thing he'd picked up, but... well, this time it lacked the usual spite.

He wandered over to the shelves around the room, examining their contents. There wasn't much there. A handful of books, most of them on political or legal matters. Folders filled with papers pinned down under glass paperweights filled with flowers. A single framed painting that was too abstract for him to make sense of. A small lockbox with a wreath of some kind engraved on the top. Samkiel allowed curiosity to take over and brushed his hand over it when he noticed the lock had no keyhole, or number-pad, or any other visible lock. Just a smooth silver pad on the front.

“Newcastle is the lead in genetic coding.” the old man commented, apparently seeing what he was doing. “Everything I lock requires a scan of my DNA to open, activated by touch. Only I can open them, as a result. Were my parents still around, or if I had any children, they too, could open it. Trying any other way will incinerate the contents.”

“That's what I call paranoia.” Samkiel scoffed, returning to his seat by the desk.

“Sensitive information requires sensitive protection.”

This... talking with this man, Samkiel realized something.

He didn't feel that burning agitation he always did. There was a sort of calm in the office.

The same sort of calm that Rowan and the Atwood home had.

Frowning slightly, Samkiel asked, “And you've no relatives?”

“None living. No wife. No heirs.”

“Hah... Doesn't Newcastle hand succession down?”

“Yes. I suppose between my philandering and running this place, I just never found the time for a relationship like all my predecessors did.”

“It's called arranged marriage.” Samkiel pointed out, lounging lazily in his seat. He should have been more... agitated. But it was really hard to be. Feeling so calm and content had become rare enough, he must have... not really wanted to question it.

He was given another dry smile, the old man putting the pen down and delicately folding his hands. “Yes, paying money for a woman to lie with me. I'm well-versed in that. I did it quite often in my twenties, and a little into my thirties. I could have easily paid a handsome dowry and gotten myself a wife. But knowing that it would be so comparable to... what I did...”

Sitting up straight, Samkiel objected, “Sometimes they've no choice.”

That earned a raised eyebrow.

“The mother of my best friend was once a prostitute. I don't know the reason behind why she stopped, but at a guess, it was because she conceived him. I may not know much about her past, but I do know that she lives much better now than before having Rowan.”

“I see.” the head nodded. “When you put it that way, I may very well have heirs and not know about it. However, it's highly doubtful. Such women tend to not keep their children, whether unintentionally or intentionally. I wasn't exactly... diligent in covering myself back then.”

Samkiel snorted, rolling his eyes.

“So... your best friend?”

“My only friend, really. I don't like people. They drive me insane and I always feel so irritated when I'm around them. It's easy to get angry and I don't care to be nice. But Rowan and Miss Atwood...”

He got up again, taking to pacing.

“I don't know what it is about them! I really, truly, don't! But they make me feel better. I'm always calm around them or at their home. They feel like home, and it's pleasant and I'm not so damn agitated. But Rowan up and deserted! And now he's trying to assassinate me, so all I have is Miss Atwood in her home, and the fucking company is starting to poke it's nose where it doesn't belong! And... and now there's you!”

The old man gave a soft, “Me?”

“You!” Samkiel barked, all but throwing himself back into the seat again. “Why do I feel so damn calm around you? Why do I feel the same in this office as at their place?”

After a moment, the Newcastle head sighed, shaking his head. “If I knew, I would tell you.”

He gave a growly huff, settling back to watch as the old man returned to his paperwork.

Actually...

It might just be his mind playing tricks on him, but the old man resembled Rowan a bit. Samkiel had always said that Rowan had his mother's eyes, but hers were bright. Rowan's were the same color as this guy's. And while the old man was hunched and weathered, when he was in his prime he must've been tall and broad, like Rowan. Violet eyes drifting down, Samkiel noticed that... that the head held his pen in the same bizarre way that Rowan did.

“... Did you ever spend a night in Neo-City?” he asked, eyes fixed on the old man's pen.

The man paused in the middle of his signature. “Not during my youth, nor in the way you mean.”

Frowning, Samkiel hummed.

Something wasn't sitting right with him.

Standing up, he grunted, “I'm leaving.”

“Right. It was a pleasure—”

“And you were the one who dismissed fake formalities.” he said over his shoulder as he headed for the door.

“Well... when you get to be as old as me, you start hoping the end comes sooner than later. You get stuck in your ways and truck on until you stop.”

Looking back for a brief moment, Samkiel couldn't really help but say, “Sleeping pills are cheap these days.”

Again, that dry smile. “I'll take that into consideration.”

Looking forward again, Samkiel squared his shoulders and plastered on his camera-smile. He was going to get out of here as quickly as possible, dodge everyone he could, and scrub his skin raw under scalding hot water.

After that, he wanted to see if he could get a DNA test done.

_A funeral pyre with rowan wood is said to keep dead spirits from being corrupted by evil._


End file.
